Silver, Crimson and Lace
by silverducks
Summary: A series of drabbles looking at Sif and Loki's relationship over the centuries. Written orignally for Sifki week on Tumblr and each chapter is based on that day's prompt.
1. Lace

_So, I wrote a series of mini one shots for Sifki week over on Tumblr a few weeks ago. Thought I may as well post them here as well. They're separate stories for each day's prompts, but they all fit together to tell a larger Sif/Loki story. The day's prompt is the title of the chapter. _

**Lace**

Her lace was exquisite, only the finest was fit for the future Queen of Asgard. The white lattice adorning her dress glistened like sunshine on rain drops, an enchanted waterfall cascading down her back. A wedding gift from the Elvin Lords.

She had always been beautiful, but now she was breathtaking as she walked down the aisle. No longer the fierce shieldmaiden, but a resplendent goddess, burning as hot as the summer sun. Even Sol the sun goddess was jealous.

All eyes followed her in awe, even Loki's, though he had tried so hard to look away. Her smile was bright, stride strong and her head held high, but he could see a sadness within her eyes. Or perhaps it was just his foolish pride.

She caught his eye when she reached the dais, parted her lips to speak words meant only for him. He did not look away quick enough, knew the image of those three words on her beautiful lips would haunt him forever. I love you.

She bowed her head and was beckoned forwards by the Allfather and Loki stepped forwards with her. He could feel her gaze upon him, hot and fierce and challenging, a silent plea. But Loki did not dare turn towards her.

The Allfather spoke and silence fell across the crowd, raising to whispers when she did not answer. The question was repeated and still she hesitated; waiting for him he knew, but there was nothing to be done. Sif had always been destined to marry Thor.

He did not look upon her until her gaze fell away from him, towards the crowds as she walked back down the aisle. He had no choice but to fall in line behind them, their hands clasped lightly and held high. She was lost forever from him now.

If she had ever been his to lose.


	2. Silver

**Silver**

They said he had a tongue laced with silver, but on the day it mattered most it was tarnished with lead. "Do you love me," she had asked, lying on her side facing him. Her hair cascaded down, black silk across his chest.

"You ask me this on the eve of your wedding to another," was his reply. She rolled her eyes and scoffed at him, at the foolishness of his question when she was already in his bed when she should be in her own. The last night she can steal away.

"Humour me, Loki," she replied, voice low as she trailed her fingertips across his chest and leant in close. Her confidence was not enough to hide the insecurity in her voice or the disappointment in her eyes. But what good would the truth do now.

If he asked, would she run away with him, travel the nine realms and the hidden domains by his side? And if she did, would she grow weary, listless and soon yearn for Asgard and the place she had fought so hard for as a warrior? What future could they have, exiled from home.

He struggled to find the words to placate her, and then for a few moments it did not matter as she leant down and brushed her lips across his. But all too soon she pulled away, escaping his caress with beseeching eyes. She craved truth, but he was accustomed to lies.

Perhaps that was why his silvertongue failed him and his words were clumsy, cold, "It matters little, Sif, you are to marry Thor tomorrow." With a scowl she turned away from him, dragging the blankets with her and leaving him cold. He tried to speak, but silver had turned to lead.

Instead he leant over, turned her back towards him and whispered her name, hoping actions would conquer where words had failed. When her eyes finally met his they were hard, defiant, but not strong enough the hide the sadness within. It mixed with her anger in the taste of her kiss.

Perhaps anger would have to be his wedding gift to her.


	3. Floral

**Floral**

He had brought her flowers, on the day of her engagement to his brother, and their floral scent still pervaded her rooms. The petals still as fresh as the day they bloomed, bright reds and yellows and sapphire blues, whilst all the rest had long since withered away. The enchanted flowers would bloom forever.

When she was feeling whimsical, she liked to imagine the everlasting flowers as a symbol of his undying love for her, his never ending devotion. When she was filled with cynicism they were a warning of his arrogance and pride, a cruel reminder of what she had lost. Sometimes she wondered if they were her punishment.

As she looked upon them now, her soul was heavy and despair was threatening to invade and break her heart once more. In precisely one week she would be wed to Thor, lost forever to the chains of court as Asgard's Queen and given away like a prize in battle. Her life made forfeit like the spoils of war.

At least she was permitted some say over what would become her new home, in Thor's chambers. But watching as the servants scurried away with boxes filled with armour and weapons and the few belongings she had come to treasure only filled her with melancholy. The life she had come to love was over.

She had been given no choice, called before the Allfather and given to his blood born son in holy matrimony just a few short months ago. It was declared her duty to the realm, a great honour to repay her loyalty to Asgard and her strength and courage as a warrior. The mortal Jane had been banished two days prior.

To refuse would have meant exile, but as she glanced around the bare, cold room, she wondered if such a fate would be so terrible. But Loki had not asked her to refuse the engagement, had barely spoken to her since, save for when she stole into his chambers and they fell once more into pretence. And she would not face exile alone.

"Where would you like these flowers, my Lady," a servant asked, reaching for the emerald vase and interrupting Sif's reverie, pulling her from her darkness. What good would despair do for her now, her destiny was already written in gold and Loki had abandoned her to her fate. She took the vase, "They will stay with me."

Punishment or promises, everlasting flowers never need be thrown away


	4. Striped

**Striped**

There was a present waiting for her when she returned from weapons training that day, a striped box of emerald and gold. There was no name, or note attached, but she knew its giver even before she opened the box and pulled out the dress. Only one would give her such a gift.

The dress was a rich, emerald green, the neckline low and decorated with beads so fine they glistened like shards of crystal. Slender straps twisted down to meet a path of gold thread, forming patterns and stripes across the fabric. The satin as soft as fingertips against her skin.

She knew it was no gift of love or devotion, even as she let the satin cascade down her body, the perfect fit. It was sure to be jealousy behind the gift, arrogance and possession, for she had been neglecting its giver of late. And now he had sent her a challenge.

The surprise that flickered across his mask when he saw her was proof he had not excepted her to wear the dress, such an obvious sign of his influence. His eyes followed her as she glided around the great hall, hot and heavy, but as he approached she withdrew. Two could play at this game.

Only after she had tried his patience long enough did she make her excuses and walk towards the far balcony, hidden from view. His eyes were fierce upon her back as he followed, his voice low as he moved beside her and whispered in her ear. "Green suits you well, my Lady."

"Thank you, my Prince, perhaps I shall wear the colour more often, though I know not who gifted me this dress." He turned towards her as he answered, "Perhaps it is from my visiting cousin, Balder, for you have been favouring his company of late." The tone teasing, but laced with jealousy.

She hid her smirk as she replied, "Then perhaps I should thank him with a kiss," she made to move past him but he grabbed her waist. His fingers were burning into her skin, matching the intensity in his eyes, "It can wait til tomorrow, he needs no more of your time tonight." A moment later he kissed away her smirk.

There were many things she had learnt from the trickster.


	5. Candles

**Candles**

He was teaching her to light candles with magic, whispering the spell in her ear as his arms wrapped around her waist. The words were foreign, an ancient language, and she struggled to pronounce them, the words tying her tongue in knots. Hers was not laced with silver.

He repeated the words, pronunciating each slowly, patiently, his breath tickling her ear and causing her to shiver. He sensed her reaction and pulled her closer, her back flush against his chest and his lips now brushing across her neck, a deliberate distraction. But Sif would master this.

He had surprised her earlier, waiting in her darkened chambers with a hundred unlit candles adorning every surface, each the colour of the finest of emeralds. She knew there to be a hundred, for it was exactly a century today since their game had begun. Though the rules had changed over the years.

As he had bowed in greeting, the candles lit magically all at once, flooding her chambers in a rich emerald glow. The dazzling light took her breath away, but she had tried hard to keep the delight from her face, the knowledge of what this day meant. Another thing to remain unspoken between them.

She had awoken in his arms to the flickering emerald light, the enchanted candles still blazing brightly and she watched as it danced across his skin. He had awoken moments later and caught her gaze, his lips twisting into a sleepy smirk. "Can you teach me magic?"

And so patiently he had taught her and eventually the candle before her flickered, trembled, then flared into life. She cried out in childish delight, before turning in his arms and thanking him with a kiss, twisting her fingers in his hair. She fought hard to kiss away his smirk.

She tried again later, when Loki was asleep, but despite her determination and perfect enunciation, the flame refused to light. She wondered if Loki was perhaps fooling her, allowing her to believe she possessed the skills of sorcery. She did not know which truth she preferred.

She did not ask him to teach her magic again.


	6. Telephone

**Telephone**

He saw it in her open jewellery box, the calling stone, or telephone as she had named it, though where she had found such a name he had no idea. It was just an ordinary stone now, smooth and polished and as black as the sky before dawn. He did not understand why she had it.

He picked it up, tested its weight in his palm and was surprised to find a small current of magic running through, an echo of its former purpose. One of three enchanted stones, a way to communicate when separated, but the magic had proved too volatile and he had destroyed two. Sif claimed to have lost hers.

She was watching him now, felt her eyes heavy on his back and knew he would see her behind him before he turned around. A cotton sheet was wrapped around her, still so modest even now, and her expression was fierce, eyes blazing in anger. She tried to hide it, but he could read her well.

Her gaze dropped to the stone in his hand and a flicker of alarm crossed her features, before she quickly looked back towards his face, eyes now defiant. "Prying through my belongings, Trickster, I would think you would know better than that." She started forwards, then stopped, holding back.

"Indeed I do, my Lady, but you were obliged enough to leave your jewellery box open and this caught my eye." He held the stone up, tried to hide his smirk as her eyes tracked it warily, before he threw it at her, a deliberately difficult throw but she caught it deftly. Loki was sure a look of relief lit her eyes.

In one quick, fluid movement, she returned the stone to the box and slammed the lid shut, before turning back towards him with a poor mask of indifference. His own mask faltered and a smirk twisted his lips as he sidled up beside her and whispered in her ear. "Why do you still have the stone?"

"What stone…" she began, stopped, shrugged then continued, "that old thing, I have no idea." Her flustered behaviour was endearing and his smirk widened as he trailed his lips across her jaw, before wrapping his arms around her and finding her lips. She answered his question in her kiss.

Their new game had taken quite an unexpected turn.


	7. Crimson

**Crimson**

Crimson ran along the blade and the white of his throat, bared to her as she ground him down into the dirt. "Do you yield," she had asked, the edge of the sword against his throat and he had merely smirked and raised his neck, deliberately drawing blood. Sif cursed and drew back, standing quickly.

He stood up slowly, watching her, eyes flickering with mischief and something else, something heavy she could not define, but it made the crimson in her veins run hot. "I drew first blood, I win," she declared, angrily, but the weapons master merely shook his head. "He did not yield, I declare a draw."

With a scowl she turned towards the second prince, brandishing her sword, "Next time coward, I will not be as merciful." He answered with a smile, an intense, challenging look in his eyes and Sif fought hard to suppress a shiver as she turned away. "I look forward to it, my Lady."

Her eyes burned into him during the feast later, fierce with anger and wounded pride and something else, something hot and intense and consuming. He smirked around his wine glass and turned towards her, only this time she held his gaze. He raised his glass in challenge.

She did look away then, rose shortly after and Loki knew where the frustration in her bones and heat in her blood would lead her. He followed behind, slipping away unseen towards the training ground and found her, sword in hand. He watched the fierce warrior silently.

Perhaps she felt his presence, for she did not look surprised when she turned to face him, blade flashing in the moonlight, "Come to lose again, my Prince." "Indeed not, my Lady, for I remain as undefeated as you," he chuckled, reached for a sword nearby. "First to draw blood wins."

The fight did not last long, a few lunges and parries, evasions and strikes and then their swords locked together. A sudden stillness, so close hot breaths mixed together and eyes blazed with intensity, until the clatter of falling swords shattered the silence. The only crimson drawn was that of swollen lips.

Though the fight, the game, would long continue, until the loser became clear.

Neither knew defeat would find them both.

**The End**


End file.
